


Homesick

by moriamithril



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A Kiss, F/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, maybe a bit more eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:27:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29499552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriamithril/pseuds/moriamithril
Summary: When Éomer visits the infirmary for help mending a wound, you’re appointed to the task. His visits become more frequent and his ailments less severe as he attempts to capture your attention.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Reader, Éomer Éadig/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Homesick

‘And _here_ ,’ the old healer told you, his voice crescendoing with grandiose reverence, ushering you in front of a large hutch stained a deep green color, ‘is the apothecary. Here you will find herbs, spirits to preserve them in down here,’ he bent at the waist as he raked a knobby index finger in front of a cabinet, knocking you to the side a bit,’ and the wax of bees, for salves and such.’

You smiled appreciatively, biting back the urge to tell him you’d made the last batch of balms and tinctures yourself as part of your training. You knew the old hutch as well as you knew the back of your hand by now. 

‘Thank you, master Eir,’ you said kindly, forcing patience to the forefront of your being out of respect for the old man. He had little to do with your apprenticeship but was well-regarded and helpful all the same.

‘Of course, of _course_ , my child,’ he replied, waving your sentiment away as if he had not expected it. 

The infirmary was dark, as were most of the structures of Edoras, but the gap in the ceiling where the slanted frame of boughs met above your head was slightly wider than most, to allow more smoke to pass through while many fires burned for hot water and keeping the ill warm. The several rooms that broke off from the main hall were mostly unoccupied at present; idle time in a sick ward was a blessing you did not take for granted. Master Eir clutched his walking cane and took off slowly towards the entrance, likely off to find his luncheon. As for you, your watch had just begun, and your first shift as a true healer would not end until you were dismissed long after most of the citizens of Edoras had their supper. 

In a plain woolen dress, undyed and the color of soft grey, you smoothed out the linen apron tied at your waist. Not a hair was out of place; you could not be further prepared. 

Another maiden, a wife of one of the riders who were currently off to patrol the territories of your people that had been raided, joined you as you stood beside a bureau of dressings.

‘You’ll find ways to pass the time,’ she said in a rather bored, projected tone. ‘You mustn't ever wish for business here. A quiet night is a good night.’ 

Nodding fervently in agreement, you wrung your hands together in front of you. ‘I do not doubt it, miss,’ you replied. 

And quiet it was, and you were grateful for it, until shortly before you were meant to be sent home the rumbling sound of hooves, hundreds of them, crept its way like rolling thunder from the hills beyond the valley of Harrowdale. The other healer, the wife of the rider called Duna, let her long braid swivel, and fall from her shoulder down her front as she met her dark eyes with yours. 

‘I would dismiss you,’ she said, and you felt that she strongly kept any fear or worry buried deep inside her, ‘but I am afraid I may need assistance.’

Fortune had fallen upon the riders and the people of Edoras on that evening, for the wounded were few and their injuries minor; no death would fall upon your valley. After cleansing several cuts and stitching up some that were too deep to heal on their own, Duna was met by her husband, who helped in a tall, broad figure at his side, waves of golden hair obscuring his face as his head hung between his shoulders. 

‘One last sad soul, I’ve brought,’ said he to his wife in a heaving sort of voice, and his tone suggested that his friend was not as bad off as he appeared. 

‘Oh, Lord Éomer,’ said Duna, reverence coming to life from her lungs as she spoke the words. Duna’s final patient, a young boy of fourteen summers, still laid upon the bed she sat besides, the cut on his wound not entirely tended to. ‘Please, sit.’

Duna’s husband deposited the man on the edge of a nearby bed. Swinging his head to the side, he shook his hair from his face and revealed his knitted brows, though a well pleased smile tugged at his lips. 

‘Your husband frets, like a fussing nursemaid,’ he jested, though you detected shallow breathing; the Lord let his arm rise above his head with the aid of Alfe, Duna’s husband, and sucked in a sharp hiss through his teeth as he gritted in pain. 

A large gash bedecked his rib cage on his left side, the black fabric of his undershirt ribboned and hanging away from his chest. The mail that had covered him there was slashed and missing rings. The blood had already dried and began to crust, and you winced at the sight of it. 

Perhaps sensing your gaze, Éomer lifted his honeyed eyes and met yours. 

His ruse of jest fell away, and he swallowed, the wisps of golden hair framing his temples catching in the poor light of the many candles engulfing the rim of the room. 

The temporary silence was broken when the young boy let out a muffled groan of pain, and Duna leapt in her seat, turning towards him. Her husband Alfe kissed the top of her head, bowed his head to Lord Éomer, who thanked him, and departed from the hall.

Duna said your name curtly. ‘Lord Éomer will need his coverings removed, and you shall fetch fresh water to clean that wound,’ she began as your mouth hung agape, eyes darting desperately between her back and Lord Éomer, who was starting to look slightly amused, though not unkindly. 

‘But miss,’ you said weakly, feeling much like the prey of a wolf caught mid-stalk, and Lord Éomer pressed his lips together, averting his eyes as he suppressed a chuckle. _To laugh must hurt_ , you thought with a pang of embarrassment, knowing it likely ached him deeply to allow himself to indulge in humor. ‘Miss, perhaps _you_ ought to tend to Lord Éomer; I could finish with the young master myself -’

Lord Éomer cut you off with a firm, flat palm held up in front of him. ‘Do I frighten you?’ he asked.

‘No!’ you whispered quickly, your face crumpling as mortification washed within you. ‘Not at all, it’s only that Duna here is quite used to this sort of thing, and you are, well -’

‘I have seen many more summers than our brave young friend, here,’ he said, inclining his head towards the boy who laid motionless on the bed a few down from the one he sat upon. ‘Knowing hands belong with the innocent. If you were not worthy of my wounds, I daresay you would not be standing before me.’

Duna had turned her head round to watch the exchange between you and Lord Éomer, and grimaced slightly; you should not have protested, for you realized now it made you appear unconfident. She directed her focus back on the boy, and you nodded slowly to Lord Éomer, who returned the sentiment, giving you a little bow of his head. 

Several more seconds of silence passed between you, and Lord Éomer lifted his eyebrows slightly; again, not disagreeably. 

‘Right,’ you said, and sprung from the spot you had stood frozen upon, dashing for a deep, unused bowl. 

Behind you, running down the center of the hall was a long-entrenched pit that held the fire, recently stoked, and three cauldrons hung over it. Reaching the nearest one, you noticed it was nearly empty, so you approached the second, and ladled out hot, fresh water into the earthen bowl clutched in the hook of your arm. Bringing it to Lord Éomer’s bedside, you gestured he sit back against the pillows with a tick of your head, and he obeyed, inching his way back slowly. 

Gritting his teeth to mask the discomfort, you gripped his uninjured side gently, easing him back.

‘Very good, my Lord,’ you coaxed him, and counting the supplies on the wooden tray beside you, you drew in a deep breath. ‘Now, I beg your pardon, but I am slow with the removal of armor; your patience with me is appreciated.’

‘It is I who is indebted to you,’ he said wearily, though his smile did not waver. ‘You need not rush your craft.’

Nodding, you smiled nervously, and began to unbuckle his breast plate on his right side with trepidation. You were able to drag it from beneath him once it was unfastened, and he lifted the small of his back to allow it to slip from him, and you placed it on the floor at your feet. 

‘Your mail,’ you began helplessly, realizing he would need to sit up again to have it dragged overhead. ‘My apologies, my Lord.’

Gnashing his teeth, he rose too quickly and grunted through the pain, holding his arms up as high as he could. You cursed your trembling fingers as they found the hem of the metal, gripping it firmly as you carefully peeled it from his wound, pulling it through his arms and over his head. 

‘Toss that into the fire, will you?’ he teased, letting himself fall back into the bed once more. ‘It was of little use to me.’

‘I beg to differ, my Lord,’ you remarked, tilting your head to the side as you held it up, regarding the damaged links. You shuddered for a moment as an intrusive vision of whatever blade that met Lord Éomer’s armor penetrating just a bit deeper. 

Once the mail had been discarded beside the breast plate, you examined his final layer, a distressed shirt of wool. 

‘Cut the accursed thing off,’ he growled, laughing low in his chest, and he shut his eyes in pain again. ‘I have no attachment to it.’

Retrieving a small, sterile blade from your tray, you lifted the hem of the shirt at his belly, seeing his exposed skin and hair beneath, and cut a divot in the fabric deep enough to set the knife aside and tear it in two. When the rip parted over his chest completely, pulled asunder to reveal his upper body, you helped him shrug out of it on either side, moving slowly as you pried it from his wound. You sighed when he laid before you on the small cot, now bare from the waist up, the deep cut on his rib cage now trickling blood again. 

You reached for a pillow on another cot, and placed your fingers beneath his shoulder, tucking the pillow under his arm. ‘If you might keep your arm raised above your heart,’ you explained, noting the flesh of his arms felt like warm stone. You averted your eyes from his skin, steadying your breathing as you dipped your clean wash rag into the water before wringing it out. 

‘I am sorry, my Lord, if there is a slight sting,’ you whispered, and you pressed the rag gingerly to the torn flesh of his abdomen. His chest rose and fell quickly as his breathing quickened, but his smile was serene. 

‘You are wont to apols,’ the Lord noted, craning his neck slightly to watch your face. Your eyes widened slightly under the scrutiny. ‘And yet you do me a great service.’

‘I do not prefer to inflict pain on anyone undeserving,’ you replied, dabbing his skin gingerly as the encrusted blood began to rub away with the rag.

Lord Éomer pulled an impressed expression. ‘And for the deserving?’

You huffed out an embarrassed laugh. ‘I chose my words poorly.’

‘You, my lady, take pain from those who are plagued by it, riddled with its weight.’ He sucked in a sharp breath when you pressed against the deepest part of the wound; it was cleaned, and ready for stitching. 

You lifted your eyes to meet his, and you discovered that he was watching you intently. You had seen Lord Éomer on some occasions, riding past with his cousin, head held high. In the darkness, the faint light of the candles in an almost-empty room, you were able to truly behold him; he was a man of great beauty, you discovered there, and immediately you casted your eyes away, turning towards your tray of instruments.

A small, amber bottle of brandy glowed in the candlelight. ‘Would you like a drink before I start, my Lord?’ you inquired. ‘I will sew the wound now.’

He shook his head, and one corner of his mouth lifted. ‘I shall bear it as I am,’ he said. 

And so, you threaded your needle, tip poised against his flesh. ‘Please breathe,’ you asked him softly, and slowly he drew air into his lungs, and you pierced his skin before he could exhale. 

A still and proud patient was he; he sat, unflinching. ‘Do you foresee a quiet night ahead?’ he asked curiously, making conversation. 

‘I hope so,’ you said brightly, your tongue poking out of your teeth as you held his torn skin taut. ‘I’ve been here since morning. I shall likely leave shortly after you do.’

‘I am keeping you from your supper,’ he said disapprovingly. 

‘Nonsense,’ you replied, not looking away from your work but letting a smile play upon your lips all the same. ‘I have fared worse than a late supper.’

You felt his rumbling voice beneath his ribs. ‘Hmm, I cannot say that is a comfort to know.’

Lord Éomer disguised a hiss of pain by clearing his throat, and knowing you’d hit the deepest, most tender part of the wound, you blew a steady breath over it to alleviate the discomfort. 

‘Better?’ you asked. 

He nodded, squaring his jaw hard. 

‘If you could eat anything, right this very moment, regardless of the season,’ he began, ‘what would it be?’

You hummed out a laugh; how familiar he was. It did not take you long to think of a response. ‘Raspberries,’ you said wistfully. ‘I’ve traveled rather far from here, believe it or not.’ A proud little grin surfaced over your lips, and you recalled the story. ‘During my healer training. A two-week journey to collect herbs. North east of here we discovered a large tangle of them, covered with thorns, of course. Worth every scratch I earned.’

‘You liked them, then?’ he asked. 

Your smile grew even wider, and you nodded. ‘Very much. There,’ you breathed, sitting back in your chair to admire your work. Now a raised but clean cut sported between two ribs, and he tucked his chin down to examine for himself. 

Lord Éomer ran a dirt-laden finger near the stitches. ‘Excellent work, my lady,’ he praised. He spoke your name, and the sound surprised you. ‘That is what Duna called you, is it not?’

‘You are right, my Lord,’ you told him. Beyond you Duna had carried her tray of instruments away, her young patient in a deep slumber. You were seemingly alone with Lord Éomer. ‘I shall fetch you a spare tunic.’

He said nothing as you rose, though you felt his eyes follow you as you scurried to the bureau in the darkness, drawing out a woolen shirt of a deep blue. You brought it to him, and he sat up carefully, and you helped his arms through it, even lacing up the front. It was rather difficult to ignore how his skin felt as your knuckles grazed over it. 

‘Am I released from your care?’ he asked, mouth quirking into a mirthful grin. 

‘Yes, if you are feeling well,’ you replied. ‘I can see to it that your gear is brought to the armory for cleaning, as well, if you’d like.’

Lord Éomer frowned, and took your hand as you offered it, bringing him to his feet. ‘I will send a squire after it on the morrow,’ he said decidedly. ‘I do not wish to trouble you further.’

‘It’s been an honor to be of help, my Lord. You are a wonderful patient.’

Your breath hitched when he took one of your hands and brought it to his lips, placing a chaste but gentle kiss on it. 

‘I shall see you again, my lady,’ he said. 

You were grateful the lighting was so faint; your cheeks were on fire. ‘I should hope not _here_ , my Lord,’ you said with a small laugh. ‘Please, take care.’

His eyes narrowed, and his smile remained. Cocking his head to one side, he gave your hand a squeeze before releasing it. ‘I must only make promises I wish to keep. Be well.’

And with that, he turned and slowly made his way towards the front entrance, disappearing into the quiet night, likely to join his men for food and drink. 

Leaning against an exposed wooden beam, only then did you come to realize just how tired you were, watching his broad figure grow smaller in the distance.

‘You’ve done well tonight. I don’t think I’ve had yet to see Lord Éomer here, not since he was a boy with a fever,’ Duna remarked, joining you on the other side of the beam. She looked as worn as you felt. ‘Either fortune follows him, or he’s as good of a rider as they say he is.’

A tremor of disappointment rippled through you, and you immediately shook the ridiculous sentiment away. ‘It was not a serious wound, and for that we ought to be glad. He was a stoic patient.’

A few moments passed in silence, and you noticed Duna leaning over from your peripheral, watching you as your eyes still fell on the entrance. ‘He’s as handsome as they say, would you agree?’

Your head snapped towards her, a rather severe expression hardening over your face. Looking back towards the doorway passively, you shrugged, trying your best to appear relaxed, for you felt as if you’d been caught in an act. ‘Aye, I suppose.’

‘ _I suppose_ ,’ she mocked back, but she was not cruel in it. ‘I’ve never seen a healer receive a kiss as payment for stitches before.’

You could have fainted, you felt so exposed. Wrapping your arms around yourself tightly, you remained rooted on the spot. 

‘He felt obligated to be polite,’ you said with finality. ‘You say he’s never been in before, perhaps he knows not how things are done.’

‘Is _that_ how you make it out?’ Duna asked, feigning innocence, and she began to tidy the tray you’d used to fix up Lord Éomer. When you began to protest, reaching for it, she shook her head. ‘Be on your way now, it is late, and you’ve been here since morning. Go, and I shall see you in a few days’ time when you’re expected back.’

‘Goodnight, then,’ you told her, though you felt at a loss as you found your things to head into the night. It would have been a hearty distraction to remain behind and busy yourself. Instead, you led yourself into the balmy summer night, shaking your hand at your side, remembering how Lord Éomer’s lips had felt on it.

Within a week a young boy, bedecked in armor too big for him, presented himself at the infirmary with a wicker basket filled to its brim, covered with a linen cloth, stained pink. 

‘For you, I believe,’ he said after uttering your name. ‘Requested it brought to you by Lord Éomer.’

‘Thank you,’ you said slowly, clutching the basket as he leapt back into the afternoon sun. 

Pulling away the cloth, you discovered dozens of little raspberries, a bit pressed together but fresh and ripe, nonetheless. 

You kept them buried beneath your cloak and things tucked away until you took your leave. You ate each one after you brought them back to your hut, bringing their soft fruit to your lips, wondering if Lord Éomer picked them himself. 

* * *

It wasn’t three days after your indulgent gift that the Lord found his way to the infirmary again.

Striding into the hall with a casual swagger, he smirked when he caught your eye. 

‘My Lord,’ you said, a bit caught off-guard. ‘Have you come to have your stitches removed?’

Hair pulled back partway, he appeared far fresher than the last time you’d seen him; you tried your best to calm your nerves. 

‘I came for you yesterday,’ he replied with regret, and in his hands, he bore the tunic you’d lent him. ‘Duna would not have me go without doing it herself, said it would scar worse had I kept them in longer than need be.’

‘And she was correct,’ you said plainly, smiling. ‘And my fine work would be ruined.’ Drawing in a deep breath, you worried your bottom lip with your teeth. ‘I received your gift. I’m not quite sure how you managed to get them.’

Perhaps you expected pride; for Lord Éomer to puff his chest out like a ridiculous _bird_ , to preen in your gratitude. You were taken aback when he dipped his head, parting his lips with his tongue. 

‘I had a scout sent east,’ he explained, ‘I worried he may not have been the most delicate harvester, but I was pleased with his findings, as I hope you were.’ He suddenly straightened, throwing his shoulders back and fixing an even expression on his fair face. ‘I wanted to thank you for your care.’

You cursed yourself within your mind. _Silly romantic_ , you chided. _Do not mistake manners for fondness_. 

‘They were lovely, and I thank you,’ you told him, bowing your head a bit. 

He seemed almost relieved at this, and his face relaxed into a smile born of ease, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 

‘Is there anything else I might do to help, my Lord?’

‘I seem to be in good health,’ he said, rather at a loss. With a stiff exhale, he extended his arms, offering you the folded tunic. ‘Be well, my lady.’

His fingers brushed over yours at the exchange, and you swallowed hard as he turned and began to step away. 

As he passed the threshold, his figure silhouetting as he crossed over into the sunlight, you felt another healer, a woman named Brigit appear at your shoulder. 

‘That was Lord Éomer?’ she asked, nearly incredulous. Her red hair appeared in your peripheral. ‘Again? He was here yesterday.’

‘He forgot this tunic that was lent to him,’ you explained hurriedly, raising the neatly folded bundle in your arms. A lump in your throat formed when you realized it smelled of him, of that leather and smoke you noticed the first night he came in. ‘Nothing more.’

‘He had it with him yesterday,’ she said wryly, and mortification washed over you as she smirked, folding her arms over her chest as she leant against the wooden support beam. ‘Duna offered to take it, of course. Said he forgot to see if it needed _mending_ , asked when you’d be back next.’ 

The first running through the center of the hall felt entirely too hot. ‘And it looks to be in order,’ you said flatly, patting the tunic in your hand. ‘Stitches removed; tunic returned.’

* * *

Two weeks after the first night in the infirmary, Lord Éomer returned for a third time. You pretended not to see Duna and Brigit exchanging looks from beside you. 

Lord Éomer gave each healer a small nod before approaching you. Setting your handiwork of straining the leaves of plantain in oil aside, you folded your hands neatly in your lap, wishing your heart would cease its incessant beating. 

‘My Lord?’ you breathed, making a poor attempt at nonchalance. 

Lord Éomer towered above you from where you sat, appearing rather sober, though a benign wickedness shone in his hazel eyes. ‘I thought you’d be willing to tend to another cut,’ he inquired, cocking a hip, and you noted the sheathed blade that hung from it. 

His head seemed to shine within the dark walls of the main hall, hair of gold illuminated by the candles and firelight. _Too handsome for his own good_ , you thought morosely. 

Ignoring Brigit’s uncontrolled snicker and Duna’s warning, hissed entirely too late, you rose from place, smiling dutifully. ‘Please, show me, my Lord, and I shall do what I can.’

Lord Éomer’s eyes flashed towards the women behind you before meeting yours. Almost immediately the two healers abandoned their own work, muttering something about checking on a sleeping patient in the rooms beyond, and made a great deal of noise as they left the two of you alone. _How awful they are!_ you cried out in your mind, to _leave me to the wiles of this Lord who seems to mock me so_. 

Once the room was empty - too empty; he shifted his weight and began to tug at the hem of his collar, the sound of his gear reverberated off the walls, the usually dull acoustics seeming to strengthen in his presence. You held your breath as you awaited the sight of his most recent wound. 

A thin, red scratch revealed itself to you, just where the hollow of his throat met his collarbone. Your stomach tightened like wound knots, but not because of the mark. It looked no deeper than what a kitten might leave behind; angry and inflamed, but short and shallow. 

‘Ah,’ you managed to utter, hesitantly stepped closer to him. 

Your hands fluttered uselessly in front of you, at first making a motion to take his collar in your own grip, but you faltered. Soon he nodded, and you parted the gap between your bodies, holding the fabric away from his neck and squinting in the poor light. 

Lord Éomer’s lips parted slightly as you dragged an index finger over the mark and you ignored that, that simple but maddening move of his mouth, blatantly. 

Stepping away from him, as if his entire being was set aflame, you stumbled backwards slightly. ‘I shall fetch a salve, to rid off any infection,’ you said tartly, masking the waxing tension you felt radiating between you. 

Lord Éomer stood still as stone as you hurried to the hutch, plucking a small tin from one of the shelves. Unscrewing it with trembling hands, you hoped he did not notice as you blotted it, gathering the green substance around your fingertip before bringing it to his scratch. Dabbing it against his skin, you felt his chest rise and fall, its steadiness rupturing slightly, or perhaps you imagined it. 

‘Keep it clean,’ you murmured, wiping your finger on your apron, clenching your fist to relieve the pulsing of your palm. ‘It should not be a bother to you for long.’ Busying yourself with the lid of the tin, you felt you could not find anything else to say. ‘And you are not obligated to thank me for such, my Lord.’ You couldn’t bear more whispering from your colleagues, the embarrassment he brought upon you! ‘It is my duty to serve you.’

‘You would deny me my right to thank my subjects for their service to me?’ he asked in a low voice, adjusting his collar. 

‘Your rights remain, sire, but you are not required to repay.’

He spoke naught as he departed. _You are a subject_ , you reminded yourself, the words ringing through the eaves inside your head. _Nothing more_. 

* * *

It was a particularly cool summer, chilled, damp air hanging round the little village, and yet a hot and stagnant breeze from the south occasionally blew through. Whispers of evil tidings began to brew between your neighbors, rumors of war. Beasts lurked about in the mountains beyond, their reach stretching into the valleys peppered with midsummer blooms. You immersed yourself in your work, as if to heal might shield you. 

Nights spent alone in your hut were silent, save for the sound of the kettle nestled over the crackling fire, the ping of your spoon tinkling against earthen bowls of stew. _How simple my mind must be_ , you thought, miserable each time your daydreams strayed to Lord Éomer. You had seen far too much of him; you were trained to know the human form, the skin of Man, and yet his was an uncharted land, tempting the pads of your fingers. _May he stay unscathed,_ you prayed to the stars. _So that my heart might not fool itself._

Your prayers went unheard. 

Another week passed when Lord Éomer appeared in the empty hall, finding you on duty alone. 

Frustration boiled inside of you. He wore the grin of a fool-hardy boy, awaiting the perfect moment to execute a prank. Why would he not let you be?

‘My Lord.’ Your tongue clicking against your teeth slightly. ‘It seems that you break a rather impressive streak of avoiding the infirmary,’ you remarked. ‘A shame.’

His grin did not falter at this. ‘Perhaps what ails me is a troubled mind,’ he confessed, taking slow and careful strides closer to the bed you sat upon, dried herbs being bundled with twine laid out on a thin strip of cloth. ‘A mark remains on my skin, for many days now. Perhaps you might relieve me of any concern?’

Nostrils flared, you inhaled sharply. ‘Where is it?’

_He is diabolical_ , you raged to yourself, watching him with wide eyes as he lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing his abdomen to the soft, yellowed light of the hall. A bruise laid towards the right side, just above his hip bones where his trousers sat. 

‘It’s beginning to yellow,’ you said tersely, returning to your work, refusing to pay it any more attention. ‘It’s healing quite normally.’

‘It pains me,’ he explained. ‘I should not heed it any mind?’

You froze, weighing his words. ‘How severe is it? Does it keep you from riding, from sleep?’

Lord Éomer had let the fabric fall back over him, and he stood fixed on the spot. He appeared rather guilty. Shaking his head, he looked to his boots. ‘I can do both,’ he admitted. ‘I suppose the pain subsides with each new day. I thought it ought to have left by now.’

‘It will fade, Lord Éomer,’ you said, voice tinged with resignation. ‘I can promise you as much.’

Resting his palm on the hilt of his blade, he pursed his lips into a neutral smile. ‘Do you fare well, my lady?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I know discontent ripples throughout the valley.’

Raids had begun to occur further beyond the city, word carrying from distant villages as a few on horseback appeared seeking refuge. They spoke of terrible beasts. 

You were frightened, yes, for your neighbors. For the people, whose homes had been burnt and ransacked, for the families seeing unspeakable things be done to those they loved. _If I tend to my work, I can do what I can to help_ , you told yourself. Lord Éomer humored himself with his unneeded visits, for what purpose you did not realize, but he was sincere in his inquiry. 

‘I am well, my Lord. I will do what I must to be of use. To help.’

He turned to leave but stopped himself momentarily. ‘And who, my lady, might be of use to you?’

He did not await a reply, and you wished you hadn’t been so dismissive as he let the night consume him. 

* * *

As sure as the sun rising with quiet promise each day and falling behind the mountains each night, Lord Éomer returned the following week. Duna and Brigit were mercifully out collecting fresh herbs, leaving you, the youngest and freshest healer, to the more tedious work indoors.

He approached your chair in surrender, it felt. He wilted a bit, sitting down on the bed opposite you. 

You said nothing, simply letting your eyes fall upon him. After a moment, after the Lord averted his eyes like a scolded child, you raised your eyebrows expectantly. 

‘What ails you, sire?’ you asked through an exhale. 

Lord Éomer let his head fall to one shoulder, his golden locks catching the light. ‘My finger,’ he stated in a bored tone. ‘It hurts.’

You dropped a bundle in your lap unceremoniously, giving him a long, hard stare. His sport was growing old, his intentions entirely unknown to you. ‘Your _finger_ hurts,’ you retorted, frowning in disappointment. ‘Did you do something to break it? Did you catch it in a door? Did you slam it against something? What _happened_ ,’ you demanded curtly. 

He shrugged, and his eyes danced between your mouth, your lips in a thin, severe line, and your eyes. His were filled with light, as if he begged you to laugh with him. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ he sighed, ‘but perhaps you ought to see for yourself. _You_ are the healer, of course.’

You held out your hand impatiently, and nearly snatched his when he offered it to you. 

‘Which one?’

‘This first one,’ he explained, extending his index finger. 

You were not necessarily gentle as you contorted his hand in yours, examining the digit with extreme scrutiny. ‘There isn’t a bump or slash on it,’ you grumbled. ‘Is it _beneath_ the skin?’

‘That, I know not, my lady,’ he said dramatically, and you shot him a look. The corners of his mouth twitched _just_ so. 

_If he will tease, acting like a child, I shall treat him like one!_ you thought angrily, and you brought his hand to your lips. You kissed his finger, right on the warm pad of it, and let it fall back to his side.

‘There, I’ve kissed it better. Run along now, and don’t get hurt again,’ you admonished him, a displeased look washing over you. 

Lord Éomer stared at you; though he appeared impassive, you detected a harassed look of shock beneath his exterior. Motionless he sat, and deep humiliation sank into your chest.

The dried leaves in your hands began to crumple; you were far too rough with the bundles as you continued to wrap them in the cut twine, wishing desperately that Lord Éomer would take his leave, for you felt his eyes on you, they burned into you. 

‘I shall not,’ he finally told you, and again he left.

You could have burst from the dread as two sets of hurried footsteps pattered into the hall. 

‘You kissed him!’ Brigit shouted, Duna’s loud, ‘Shh!’ hissing through the hall sharply.

You squinted your eyes in vexation. ‘Do you see how he torments me?’ you whined, gesturing towards the entryway with a hard movement of your arm. ‘His finger? _Bruises_?’ 

You thought your bundles might disintegrate entirely, you so fiercely pulled on the strings of twine. Duna’s head fell to your lap, observing the thin layer of leaves dusted over your apron. 

‘You truly know not?’ Duna asked. She sat on the other side of the bed, plucking up a bundle, helping you. ‘I believe he must come to see you.’

You huffed out an offended laugh. ‘You jest,’ you accused.

‘She jests not!’ Brigit exclaimed, and she knelt by the bed in front of you. ‘He’s been here twice in the past three days, while you were home. He’s a kind man, a good one; do you see the way he dotes on his sister? His cousin? He does not mean you harm.’

Your shoulders sagged, defeated. ‘ _Me?_ ’ you whispered. ‘Why?’ 

Duna tsked, resting her palm on the cot and leaning towards you. ‘Let _him_ tell you that. You just have to stop sending him away.’

* * *

Several days passed; Middle-earth straddled midsummer for too long, and now the sun sank a bit earlier, the sky washing into luscious purples and oranges over the valley. 

Lord Éomer haunted you by staying away. It felt like a dream, to have been pursued by the nephew of the king himself. Had you offended him? Did he truly seek you out like Duna had claimed? You stood in the summer evening, letting the tepid breeze wash over you. The menacing, unfamiliar heat from the south still passed through, especially often as night cloaked the valleys. You willed Lord Éomer to return, so that you might understand him better, for you were a mere servant to him, and yet you still tasted the berries on your tongue. 

Finally, the stars heard your plea and answered. Later that night, the moon hung suspended in a blackened sky glistening clearly with stars, a hair of gold appeared on the threshold. 

You tended to needlework; setting it aside, you did not roll your eyes with dread, or shrink away from him, but sat upright. When he noticed you, he stepped into the hall, walking past the long fire pit. 

How exposed you felt; it was as if Duna’s words polished away a veneer, leaving you more open to the Lord who stood before you, eyeing you carefully. 

‘What ails you, my Lord?’ you murmured gently. 

Gingerly he sat on the cot next to the one you occupied. You realized then that Edoras had been blessed this summer. So often beds had lain unoccupied. Tonight, the great hall was empty save for you and Lord Éomer. He was so broad, his knees nearly brushed against yours as he settled. He folded his hands between his legs, smiling as if he knew you’d expected him, as if he’d arrived at an agreed time. 

He shook his head, parting his lips with his tongue. ‘It cannot be shown, it can hardly be spoken,’ he confessed, low and deep. ‘My chest -‘ he held his palm over the left side of his breast, eyes far away, looking someplace beyond his boot. ‘A strange ache unknown to me. I come here, to you, because it is here and only here that I find relief from it. The burden here,’ he patted his chest, ‘is lifted upon seeing your face.’ 

You swallowed, wishing the breath leaving through your nose was not so shaky, so uncertain. ‘But I,’ you began, and you shook your head, cursing the tears welling inside your throat, threatening to spill salt down your cheeks. ‘I am a servant. You mean to thank us, you said? Not mock us?’

His eyes lifted from beneath his knitted brows, and his eyes searched yours quietly, as if to seek consent as he reached for your hands. His were so warm, and the rough pads of his thumbs raked over your knuckles. 

‘I should never mock you,’ he vowed, and your eyes fluttered shut for a moment as his touch. ‘I have been enraptured by you; you are no servant to me. It is I who lay myself at _your_ feet. I should serve you until my dying breath if you would have me.’

‘My Lord - ‘

‘Call me Éomer,’ he begged, brows still furrowed together. 

‘Éomer,’ you said slowly, testing the name in solitude. His chest filled with breath as you spoke it. ‘I know not what to say.’

‘If I frighten you, if you wish me to leave you be, you need only say it once.’

‘No, no,’ you corrected swiftly, and you shared his grasp, threading your fingers through his. ‘I do not wish for you to go.’

‘And if I wished to kiss you?’ he questioned, voice a mere whisper. 

You shut your eyes, smiling, for looking upon his face was too much. You brimmed with a strange happiness you had not felt before. 

‘Then I would let you,’ you breathed. 

His eyes crinkled at this, smile broad and exposing his teeth. The breath you pulled in trembled as he cupped your cheek in his palm. 

‘And I am grateful for your permission.’ 

Éomer leaned towards you; your breath hitched when the column of his nose brushed against yours, and patiently he allowed you to bridge the gap, pressing your lips to his.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
